


Can't Get It Wrong

by salainen



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:24:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salainen/pseuds/salainen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sniper and Spy adjust to their new relationship paradigm. Repeatedly.</p><p>Follows directly on from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2057397">"Switch"</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tension

“Well,” says Spy. “You're better than I expected.” They're lying on the mattress in the back of Sniper's van. There's a small pile of jarate jars just outside the doors.

Sniper snorts. “Thanks, mate.”

“I am going to return to the base now,” Spy says, starting to get dressed. “There is, after all, a match tomorrow, and I'd like to be as well-rested as possible.”

“All right. I'm going to sleep in here tonight. Too tired to move.”

Spy smirks. “Did I wear you out?”

“Yeah, yeah, go pat yourself on the back somewhere else. And don't forget about --” There's a loud crash.

“ _Mon dieu!_ ”

“-- all the jars we chucked outside.” Sniper leans out the open door to see Spy sitting in said pile, seething with rage.

“This is, without a doubt, the worst fuck of my life.”

“Hey, the actual fuck was fine! You just forgot you made me put those all outside.”

“Next time,” Spy says, warningly, “we do this on my territory.” He leaves, mumbling in French the entire way.

“There's going to be a next time?”

* * *

“You stole my shot!” Sniper yells, leaning down into Spy's face.

“Excuse me for not noticing you three miles from the battlefield! I saw my chance and I took it,” Spy retorts.

“How could you not know? There was a big bloody laser sight on his head!”

“I thought it was some sort of luminescent boil.”

“'Luminescent boil'? Can you even hear --”

He doesn't finish the sentence because Spy has seized him by the front of his vest and jammed his tongue down his throat.

That's pretty much the end of that argument, and the start of a different one.

“We are not going to the van again,” Spy says, attempting to unbutton Sniper's shirt.

“Fine, we'll go to yours then,” he says, grabbing Spy's hand from his shirtfront and pulling the glove off.

“As if I would allow any of you into my room. We're using your room.”

“Oh my god,” Sniper says, moving to Spy's other glove, “you are such a prissy little shit. What, you don't want to get your sheets dirty?”

“I don't, but that's not why,” Spy says, ceasing his unbuttoning efforts in favour of using Sniper's shirt to drag him down the hallway. “I keep sensitive information and other things related to my job in there. Presumably you keep most of your disgusting personal effects in your van and your room is suitable for relations.”

“'Relations'?” Sniper says, laughing derisively. “Just call it 'fucking', would you? You've said it before.”

“Fine, open the door,” he says, swinging Sniper towards it, “and we can do all the 'fucking' you want.”

It takes a few moments for Sniper to locate the key on his ring (Spy's curious about what the rest of the keys are for, but he's swiftly losing the ability to think clearly), but soon there's a click and he can push the door open.

“Thank god,” Spy says, heading straight for the bed, shedding layers as he goes. “Could you take any longer?”

“I can't wait until you shut up,” is all Sniper says, following.

In time-honoured tradition, Spy tells him, “Make me.”

* * *

“Has anyone seen my hat? I can't find the bloody thing,” Sniper asks the assemblage of teammates sitting in the common area.

“Haven't seen it,” says Demo, not looking away from the TV.

“Damn,” he says. “It's not in my room or my van – ah, bloody hell, I know where it is.” He turns on his heel and heads for the bedrooms.

“Looking for something?” Spy asks when Sniper pushes his door open. He's wearing the hat over his balaclava, tilted at a silly angle. Regardless of this and the anger he's trying to repress (or perhaps _because of_ it), he finds himself joining Spy in bed.

He gets the hat back afterwards.

“Don't touch my stuff,” Sniper says, getting up to leave.

* * *

“Dinner's ready,” Sniper says, poking his head out into the common area. Everyone shuffles into the kitchen.

“Smells terrible, bushman. What did you make, roasted car tire?”

“It's chicken, you bogan.”

“And I'm sure it's delicious,” Spy tells him, voice dripping in condescension.

“Just eat your dinner,” he says, putting plates of it on the table.

“Just as I suspected,” Spy sighs after a bite. “But then again you Brits are renowned for your horrible cuisine, aren't you?”

“I'm Australian!”

“Ah, yes, much better. The country of convicts.”

Sniper stands up from the table. “Can I see you in the hallway for a moment, please?” he asks Spy through gritted teeth.

“Of course,” Spy says, sounding magnanimous.

“Oh shit, Spy's in for it now,” Scout says as they leave.

As soon as they get into the hallway, Sniper has Spy up against the wall.

“Why do – you have to be – such a complete _bastard_ \-- all the time?” Sniper asks, the question broken up by Spy's lips on his.

“How can I resist – when you react this way?”

That stops Sniper right there. “Wait, do you do this on purpose?”

“Well, yes.”

“What? Why?”

“Like I said, you react so perfectly. It's too great a temptation, even for me.”

Sniper looks at him carefully. “That's not it. You only smile like that when you're lying.”

“That's preposterous – what are you doing?” Sniper's moved two fingers to his wrist.

“If you're not lying, your pulse won't go up when you tell me. Why are you pissing me off?”

“To get you into bed,” Spy says. His pulse doesn't change.

“No, that part's not the lie. It's the other part, about not being able to resist.”

“I love watching you think. It's like a baby deer learning to walk.”

“You're doing this to sleep with me,” Sniper says, “but not because 'you can't resist'. You do it because you think it's the only way.”

Spy's pulse jumps.

“Ha!” Sniper crows, “I got you.”

“Yes, very good. You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, if he were the sort of man who threw piss at people.”

“Stop trying to pull away, you idiot. I'd fuck you even if you weren't an aggravating bastard.”

“Would you? All of our, shall I say, little meetings have been after an argument or match of insults.”

“Well, apologize for being a prick and we can have one now. No arguments, no insults.”

“Fine, but only if you apologize for calling me a prick.”

“All right, I'm sorry for calling you a bogan and a bastard and a prick, and I'm going to haul you into the nearest empty room and --”

“Don't finish that. Save it until I'm done apologizing, _hein?_ I am sorry for manipulating you into sexual congress, but I did sincerely think it was only a release of tension. Still, it was wrong and I will be upfront about any carnal developments in future.”

“You know a lot of fancy words for 'sex', don't you.”

“Yes. Now what were you going to do in that empty room?”

* * *

“What happened to Spy and Sniper?” Engie asks, after they've been gone a while. “Dinner's getting cold.”


	2. Friendship & Benefits

They fall into a certain rhythm after their agreement not to intentionally anger the other in the interest of sex. It starts to spread into the other corners of their lives, too, making them work better on the field and better friends to their other teammates.

It starts making people suspicious.

“Good job on the field today,” Engie says, clapping them both on the back as he walks by. “I don't think I've ever seen so many backstabs in one round!”

“Yeah, every time I got up to a guy to shoot him, Snipes had taken his head off already,” Scout puts in. “We won, so I ain't too mad, but you're really cutting into my kills.”

“Yes, it looks like the days where Spy would sneak up to the sniper nest to scare him are over,” Medic says, giving the two of them an appraising eye. “The two of you are quite the team now.”

“We've talked through some of our differences,” Spy says blandly, “and agreed it was in the team's best interest to stop our little feud.”

“That's mighty big of you,” Engie says. “Keep up the good work.”

Engineer and Scout leave, Scout chattering about his best kills of the day while Engie half-listens. Medic keeps an eye on the door, waiting for it to shut.

“So, these conversations of yours, do they take place before or after the sex?” He considers. “Or during, I suppose?”

Both Sniper and Spy practically jump out of their skin.

“Thank you for proving my hypothesis,” Medic continues, smirking.

“Oi, we didn't prove anything.”

He looks over the tops of his glasses. “Didn't you? Don't worry, I don't care. That would be hypocritical of me, _nein_? I am just curious about why it is such a great secret when the team has been nothing but accepting of myself and Heavy. It is not as though you would be the first.”

“For one thing,” Spy starts, “it is none of your business. And for another, the situations are not the same.”

“Are you referring to your past enmity?”

“Oh, god, between the two of you it's like living in a dictionary,” Sniper mutters. Spy throws an elbow into his ribs.

“Partially,” Spy confirms. “But the nature of our relationship is also not the same.”

“Ah, I see,” Medic says. When he tilts his head, the light shines on his glasses, hiding his eyes. “The two of you are, ah, what's the English term here?”

“Fuckbuddies,” says Sniper. Spy elbows him again.

“Friends with benefits, if we have to use such childish labels at all,” he corrects. “The point is, this is not a romantic relationship, and to tell the others would invite them to ask invasive questions about our personal lives.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Medic says. “It can be rather fun. The last time Scout asked a rude question I spent three hours lecturing him about various sex acts. You should have seen his face when I started drawing the diagrams.”

Both of them are staring uncomfortably at the doctor. 

“Well, I thought it was funny,” he says. “But fine, if you don't wish to disclose your ...'fuckbuddy' status to the team, I won't be the one to tell.”

He sweeps out of the room, his coat swishing behind him.

“'Friends with benefits'!” Spy calls at his back.

* * *

Part of the difficulty in maintaining the charade is that not only have the two of them progressed into an actual friendship, which is strange enough on its own, but that Spy is somewhat ...inappropriate. He seems to enjoy nothing better than to embarrass or fluster Sniper, and with the added dimension to their relationship it's never been easier. He always stops short of actually angering him, but one would think Spy was living just to see Sniper blush and hear him make strangled noises as he attempted not to react.

He could live with this if it was only between the two of them, but it's not. It's really, really not.

“All right, movie night,” Demo says, coming into the common room holding the film reel and several bags of popcorn. He hands it off to Engie to put in the projector. “I don't know what film it is, so don't ask me any stupid questions. All I know is it came on the train and we're all dying for something new to do.”

“Amen to that, brother,” says Scout, lying on the floor with Pyro. The rest of them scramble for seats on the couch and the assorted armchairs. Sniper does his best to wedge someone between him and Spy, but unsurprisingly he's no match for Spy's sneakiness.

“Here, hold this,” Demo tells him, situating one of the bags of popcorn on Sniper's lap. “And share with the others, I don't want to hear complaining about snacks all through the bloody movie.”

Spy smiles at him as Scout turns the lights off. This is going to be a long two hours.

“Get your hand off my leg,” he says, quietly, about fifteen minutes in.

“I was just looking for the popcorn,” Spy says, innocently, taking a handful. Sniper watches him eat it with some interest – not because it's particularly sexy or anything, but because seeing Spy eat is still something of a novelty for the entire team.

“Your hand's been in the bag for five minutes,” Sniper says, forty minutes in. The bag is emptying rapidly. “Get your popcorn and move your hand.”

“Oh my, I seem to have forgotten what I was doing,” he says, pushing down slightly on the bottom of the bag. Sniper nearly upturns the whole situation in surprise.

“Don't,” he warns.

“Is that a 'no' or a 'later'?” Spy asks, whispering into his ear. He hasn't moved his hand. Or rather, he _has_ , but not in the direction Sniper was hoping for.

“I haven't decided yet,” he says through his teeth. Spy sighs and withdraws his hand.

An hour and twenty minutes in, Spy has his arm draped along the back of the couch. An hour and twenty-one minutes in, he's moved it to Sniper's shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

“Stretching,” is Spy's only response.

Sniper casts around for help, but the only person who's noticed what's happening is, of course, Medic, snickering in one of the armchairs. He gives Sniper a small wave. What a bastard.

“It's gonna be a 'no' if you don't stop,” he threatens. Spy retracts his arm.

A bit before the two hour mark, the film ends. Scout hops up and turns the lights back on.

There's popcorn everywhere, including on Sniper's pants. Spy winks at him.

“Don't you dare,” he says, brushing it off himself.

“Aw, man,” Scout says. “It's gonna take forever to vacuum all this.”

The two of them leave together.

“Why do you do that?” Sniper asks, once they're safely away from the others.

“Do what?” Spy says, picking imaginary lint off his suit.

“You know,” Sniper says. “You're always all over me when the team can see. You're the one who doesn't want to explain it to anybody, so what's it all about?”

“There's a certain thrill in the possibility of being caught,” he says, “and you're very easy to work up. It's precious.”

“Don't call me precious.”

“Adorable?”

“No!”

“Cute.”

“ _No._ ”

“Darling.”

“I will kill you and I'm not even joking.”

“Sweet.” He puncuates the last one with a kiss to the corner of Sniper's mouth.

That's new. They don't kiss except in the middle of _other_ activities, and certainly not after a teasing exchange of compliments. Sniper feels a little faint.

“I think I need to lie down.”

Spy links arms with him. “Then come along, _mon ami_.”

* * *

“You seem distracted,” Spy says, sitting up. Sniper follows suit, putting his glasses back on.

“Yeah, sorry, mate. Just thinking about something.”

“Well, don't. I am doing excellent work here and I would appreciate your full attention.”

“Maybe we should just stop for the night. I don't think my heart's in it.”

“Eugh, fine,” Spy says, sliding out of bed to get dressed. “Good night, _mon cher_. Try not to think too hard; I can smell the burning from here.” He darts out the door and to his own room before Sniper can lay hands on something to throw.

He feels a strange pull in the pit of his stomach, like there was something he was supposed to do, but didn't. The feeling persists all night.

* * *

“Doc? Can I talk to you?”

“Sniper! This is a first. Usually I have to drag you all kicking and screaming to come see me.” Not strictly true, but they all do avoid the infirmary as much as possible. “But yes, come in, sit down.”

There's a couch, but Sniper is wary of sitting on it. Who knows what the doc gets up to on that thing? No, he'll just stand. Medic shrugs it off.

“I. Uh.”

“Ah, you want to talk about Spy, then,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah.” He takes his hat off, runs a hand over his hair, puts it back on.

“You are going to have to say something if you want my advice,” Medic prompts.

“How do you know you like someone as more than a friend?” he blurts out, realizing as he asks that he sounds like a twelve-year-old girl.

Medic looks at him, scrutinizing. “You think your feelings for Spy are turning romantic.”

“Maybe. I don't really know.”

“I have to admit, I'm surprised you would come to me with this. I would have thought perhaps Engineer would have been your first stop.”

He snorts. “Truckie doesn't know romance from a hole in the ground. You and the big guy are the only ones around here who I know for sure are. You know.”

“Interested in other men?”

“Interested in other _people_. I mean, Scout is, but like hell I'm going to talk to the brat about it.”

“Yes, probably best not to ask _Scout_ for romantic advice. Has he ever told you about the fried chicken?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Your original question is a difficult one, especially considering the position the two of you are already in – you are both friends _and_ sexually intimate at this point. May I ask what brought about this consideration?”

Sniper sighs, playing with his hat again. “He kissed me yesterday.”

“And that is unusual for you?”

“Yeah. It was after he called me a bunch of nice things, too.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“The names made me feel a bit. Silly. Not in a bad way or anything. We're always calling each other names.”

“Yes, I've heard that. I don't think 'you rat bastard' is normally accepted as a pet name.”

“But then he kissed me, and it was like the kind of thing that married people do, not like when we're. Uh.” He makes a hand gesture that means _fill in the blanks yourself, I don't want to have to say it._ “Like he wasn't expecting anything more, like that's all he wanted to do. Just that little kiss. And I don't know, but I liked it. It was...nice.”

“So if your relationship was essentially sexless but still included those small acts of physical intimacy, would that be acceptable to you?”

He has to think about it. The sex _is_ really good, admittedly (probably because Spy has literally been in his body), but that's not all he likes about their time together. They're always honest with each other, and nothing has to be hidden from the other. Spy doesn't care when he doesn't talk all day or when he goes to hide on the roof to get away from everyone, just as he puts up with Spy's prissiness. He likes that they challenge each other, that they're always working off each other to get better.

Spy is an irritating prick, no doubt about it, but now he's pretty sure that he _loves_ that irritating prick.

“Yeah.”

“Then I think you know the answer.” Medic smiles. “For what it's worth, I believe he'd say yes.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“You're welcome!” He returns to the work he was doing before Sniper's visit.

Sniper pushes the swinging doors to the infirmary open – and promptly hits someone in the face.

“ _Putain de merde!_ ”

“Spy? You all right, mate?” He reaches down to pull Spy up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, now it's to have Medic fix my face!”

“Your face is fine, don't be a baby.”

Spy still touches his face gently, as if testing for broken bones. Sniper rolls his eyes. “Hrmph. Watch where you're going, bushman.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I think we need to talk later, so come by my van after dinner.”

Spy raises an eyebrow (or at least, Sniper thinks so; it's hard to tell through the mask). “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“No, no. At least, I hope not.”

“After dinner, then. If you'll excuse me.” He pushes through the infirmary doors with a flourish. Sniper shakes his head, smiling affectionately.

* * *

Sniper skips out on dinner, so he's on edge until he hears a knock on the back doors of the van at about seven.

“Who is it?” he asks, just to be annoying.

“It is your mother, now open the doors before someone notices me.”

He laughs, opening the door. “Evening, spook.”

“Yes, hello,” Spy says, climbing into the van. “Now, what was this discussion you wanted to have? Or was that code for a different kind of discussion?”

“Uh. No. Though we can do that later, assuming you're still here.”

“Bushman, I am starting to worry about this little talk of yours.”

“I think I like you,” he says, before he loses his nerve. “As more than a friend, I mean. I want to make this a real _thing_.”

“You want us to have a romantic relationship?” Spy says, bug-eyed. Sniper takes his cigarette before it can fall from his mouth and cause the van to explode. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I mean. Things have been good between us since we stopped being complete arses to each other all the time, and then you kissed me and --”

“Wait, is that what you were thinking about last night?”

“Yeah. It was really...good. So I figure we could do it more if we were a real couple.”

Spy snorts derisively. “You want to date me to kiss me more.”

“No! I mean, that isn't a bad thing, but I want _you_. Your dumb French insults and your fancy suits and the flouncy way you open doors. I want you to stay at night and to put your arm around my shoulders during movie night and for everyone else to know and be okay with it.”

“You've actually thought about this.”

“Of course I have, you piker. I think I might actually. Love you.”

Spy tosses him to the floor of the van for that, sitting on top of him. For a split second, Sniper braces himself for a punch in the face, but all he gets is another kiss. 

“ _Moi aussi, mon cher,_ ” he says, and then there's no more talk, for once.

He's pretty sure they actually break something in the van.

They don't stop.


	3. The Full Romance

“I'm never sleeping here again,” Spy proclaims the next morning. Sniper actually looks ...disappointed? “This mattress is horrible. All future nights together will be held in the actual base where there are actual beds.”

“I was about to ask if it was that bad,” Sniper says.

“The mattress was. You weren't.” Actually, he's a model bed partner. No kicking, the blankets remain evenly shared, not too warm. It's a little disconcerting – Spy had expected it to be as much a back-and-forth as anything else they do together.

“Let's go get breakfast, eh?”

“We may as well not go,” Spy says, laying back down. “It's Demo's turn to cook.”

“Oh. Yeah, better not.” He pauses. “I think there's some bread in here, we could have toast.”

Spy flips him over from where he's reaching for his glasses and pins him down. “I have a better idea.”

* * *

Later, after they're done (and after the toast – there _was_ bread in the van), they start heading towards the battlefield for the day's work. The van is sagging comically – they've wrecked the suspension.

“Hey,” says Scout, jogging up, “did you _both_ come out of the van?”

“I --”

“We --”

“It --”

“Um.”

“Oh man, you guys are so busted. You're totally doing it! Is that why you two stopped being dicks to each other, 'cause you were fucking it out? Everyone's going to love this.”

“What are we going to do about this?” Spy asks, watching Scout run off.

“I say we just let him tell everyone, then we don't have to.”

“Fair point.”

Everyone knows inside of ten minutes, but they don't have the time to talk about it before the match starts. There are a few curious looks thrown their way, but they're not doing anything out of the ordinary, so they soon stop.

“I can take a look at your van now,” Engie says, shortly after the match ends. “Though I can tell you right now you probably shouldn't keep having your, uh, _rendez-vous_ in there.”

“What? I used to pick up dozens of pros– girls in this beauty! One skinny Frenchman shouldn't be any trouble.”

Spy shoots him a dirty look. Sniper shrugs.

“She's getting old. Can't keep that kind of stress on her anymore,” Engie says, sliding under the van and getting to work. It doesn't take him long to fix it – Engineer's nigh-magical abilities seem to apply off the field as well as on it – and afterwards the three of them go in the base together.

It turns out the rest of the team used this brief window of time to throw a surprise party.

“Congratulations!” they all shout as the three of them traipse back inside.

“On what?” Sniper asks, blindsided.

“On getting over yourselves enough to get together,” says Demo, pushing drinks into everyone's hands.

“And for letting us know about it,” adds Engie. “It was probably hard, since you're both so private.”

Spy's eye is twitching. Sniper gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, I guess.” He turns to Spy. “Drink that, you'll feel better.”

“It's going to take a lot more than this to make me 'feel better',” he mutters.

“Don't worry, lad, there's plenty more where that came from. Bottoms up!”

Scout stifles a laugh at “bottoms up”. Engie punches him in the arm.

“I'm glad you can laugh about these things again, Scout,” Medic says. “I was worried I may have scarred you for life.” He laughs maniacally.

“I still have nightmares about that,” Scout grumbles. “It's not funny!”

“I am sorry, but it's _very_ funny. That's what happens when you pry into other peoples' business, _Schnecke_.”

Scout's in a bad mood for the rest of the night.

“I can't believe we have to have another one of these 'congratulations on your gay love' parties,” he grouses at one point. “...No offense.”

“None taken,” Spy says flatly.

“Ah, love is everywhere, lad,” Demo cuts in. “Even on secret intelligence bases in the desert.”

“Perhaps we should start taking bets on who will be next,” Medic offers, smiling unpleasantly. “From the way he's been protesting, I believe Herr Scout will be involved.”

“No, I won't,” Scout protests from the other end of the room.

“Five dollars on Scout,” he stage-whispers.

* * *

“Well, that was horrible,” Spy says as he and Sniper head out from the party.

“Eh, it wasn't so bad. Except for Scout, and everyone knows he's always an enormous pain in the arse.”

Spy flops down into a chair as soon as they get into Sniper's room. “Yes, I may have to kill him.”

“Don't kill Scout, he's just young and stupid.” He leans down to give Spy a kiss on the forehead. “Remind me not to do that again; I just got a mouthful of your mask.”

“ _Mon pauvre_ ,” Spy says, still looking grumpy. “But considering you have already seen what's there, I may as well take it off. Lock the door, would you?”

Sniper obliges. Spy takes his mask off.

He didn't get a good look at Spy's face, last time. Now he's getting the chance to study it, to actually see what Spy looks like. Spy is a fairly good-looking man, he's already said as much, and the analysis holds up now. But there are also small things he didn't get to see last time, like that Spy has awkward tan lines where his mask lays against his skin, and that his dark hair is graying and flat from being held down for hours.

“Still think I'm _not bad-looking_?” he asks, uncomfortable under scrutiny.

“Yep,” says Sniper. “Gotta do something about those tan lines, though.”

“You are one to talk,” Spy says, pushing up one of Sniper's sleeves to expose the obvious difference in skin tone.

“You know I'm just messing with you, right?”

“Yes, but I believe the basis of a proper relationship is reciprocity.”

“There you go with the big words again.”

“I'll buy you a dictionary.” He gives him a kiss. “And for the record, reciprocity means 'mutual give-and-take'.”

“I know what it means!”

“Yes, because I just told you.”

“You're the worst,” Sniper says. “But what do you say we reciprocate over there?”

“Without a doubt the worst come-on I have ever heard.”

“That's not a 'no'.”

“It was a yes, but in future do not refer to sex as 'reciprocating'.”

“I'll just stick to 'fucking', then, yeah?”

Spy rolls his eyes. “Good enough.”

* * *

“Wake up, _mon paresseux,_ I brought breakfast.” Spy kicks the mattress to emphasize his point.

Sniper wakes up slowly to a bowl of cereal being pressed into his hands. “Truckie forgot he was supposed to make breakfast again, eh?”

“Yes, he did,” Spy says, sitting back down on the bed with his own cereal. “Apparently he is building some sort of robot to do that for him.”

“He would,” Sniper agrees, putting his breakfast aside to put his glasses on – not wearing them gives him a headache. “D-did you go to the kitchen like that?”

Spy's wearing one of Sniper's shirts over his own pants.

“Yes, I did, considering you ruined my shirt last night. Why?”

His throat is suddenly very dry. “I just. It's. Uh.”

Spy's face splits into a devious smile. It's one Sniper associates with good things, but everyone else associates with “finding a knife six inches deep in your back”. “You like it.”

He doesn't bother with a sarcastic answer. “Yeah.”

“Then I'll leave it on,” he says, voice low.

Breakfast is abandoned.

* * *

“I've been wondering,” Sniper says, the two of them sitting in Sniper's bedroom cleaning their weapons, “how much do you even know about me? I know you know more about me than I know about you, because that's your job, but how much is it?”

“It is a lot,” Spy answers, oiling his revolver. “Or did you want the list?”

“You can give me the list?”

“Well, it is not so much a list of all the things I know so much as all of the documents I have read. But yes.”

“Yeah, give me the list.”

“Let us see. I have read your school reports, your medical files, your dental records, your criminal record, and your various forms of identification.”

“My 'criminal record'. There's only one charge on there!”

“And it is not at all what I would have expected. What, exactly, did you steal? That information was not provided.”

“It was this hat, actually.”

“You spent a month in jail for _that_?”

“Yeah, so?”

“While I have often considered that hat a crime, I didn't mean so literally.”

Sniper laughs, continuing to sharpen his kukri. “It was worth it. I've had this hat for twenty years.” They work in relative silence for a while, the sounds of the weapons the only noise. “So, if the basis of a relationship is reciprocity, are you going to tell me anything about you?”

“You know I cannot tell you that sort of thing.”

“I'm not asking for the kind of details you know about me. Just...something.”

“Well, I've never been to prison for stealing a hat, or anything else, for that matter.”

“Really? You've never been arrested?”

“I didn't say that,” he says lightly. “They were just never able to close the case.”

“That doesn't count. You just told me something that _didn't_ happen to you.”

Spy sighs. “What would you consider appropriate?”

“Your name, maybe. Not the whole thing, but just your first name. You know mine, and it feels weird to be involved with a bloke I just call 'Spy'.”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Why not? And don't give me the 'what if someone hires me to kill you' excuse. I can't track someone down on something like that.”

“That assumes you wouldn't already know where I am.”

“If I knew where you were I wouldn't be taking money to kill you, you idiot.”

They exchange a look, both of them weighing the implication.

“Do you trust me?” Sniper asks him.

“Yes; I would think that was fairly obvious.”

“Then tell me. It's not like I'll be using it all the time, or ever, if you don't want me to. Just let me hear it, once.”

Spy looks like he's struggling with the decision, so Sniper lets him think it out, dragging the whetstone up his knife in slow, deliberate strokes, not looking at him.

“This information never leaves this room. You are never to speak it without permission, and I will not hesitate to stop you if you, sometime in the nebulous future, use it to track me down.”

“I already told you I can't do that.”

“Things change.”

“Just tell me already.”

Spy looks around the room, as if to make sure no one's walked in without him noticing, and leans into Sniper's ear. He tells him.

“Yeah, all right, that works for you,” he says, rolling it around his head.

Spy laughs at that. “Thank you so much for your approval.”

Sniper goes back to his kukri. “You're welcome.”


	4. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of homophobia in this chapter. Do not read it if that triggers you.

“Do you think we should go on a date?” Sniper asks, the two of them sitting on the roof of the base just looking at the sky.

“A date.”

“You know, something off-base.”

“And where would we, two known mercenaries who are also both men, go on this date?”

“I hear San Francisco is pretty good about that kind of thing.”

Spy snorts a laugh. “You would take me out of state just to go on a date?”

“I'd take you out of the country if it meant you didn't have to stab anyone.”

“It's a very nice idea, _mon cher_ , but I don't need you to take me anywhere.”

“I just feel like that's what's supposed to happen, you know?”

“Perhaps in most relationships,” Spy concedes, “but ours is not exactly _most relationships_.”

They go back to watching the horizon.

“I've been wondering,” Spy says after a while, “if it's not prying too much, what, precisely, is your romantic experience? It's the sort of thing that even I can't find on a person, and with what I do know about your life I can't imagine there's been much of it.”

“Three sheep and a vanload of prostitutes,” Sniper says, still looking at the sky.

“I said romantic, not sexual,” Spy says. And then, “Did you say _sheep?_ ”

* * *

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” Spy says, finishing work on his tie. “Though it may be worth it just to see you out of uniform.”

“You see me out of uniform all the time,” Sniper says from where he's dressing, which is behind Spy's fancy stand-up screen. He's not really sure why Spy _has_ one, but whatever.

“I meant in a different set of _clothes,_ ” Spy says, flicking his eyes to the ceiling as if beseeching god for a less obtuse partner. “Although I suspect anything else you own is going to be almost as atrocious as the uniform.”

“My uniform is not 'atrocious', it's practical. Unlike yours.”

“Yes, well, at least I look good.” He gives his date outfit a last look in the mirror. He looks fantastic. “Are you done yet? I want to know just how embarrassed I will be to be seen with you in public.”

“Yeah, hang on while I do this bloody tie up.” Spy taps his foot impatiently. “All right, have a look.”

While Sniper's tie is hilariously poorly knotted, he actually looks good. Better than good. Spy is so astonished he actually has to pinch himself. The suit is properly tailored, he's wearing appropriate socks, and his shoes are shined. He's not even wearing his hat, though the sunglasses are still perched on his nose.

“Do you have a different pair of glasses?”

“No,” he says. “I knew you were going to ask.”

“Hand them over.”

“I need these to see!”

“Did you forget I have literally seen through your eyes? I know that. I will be your eyes for the night. Give them to me.”

He hands them over.

“Looking sharp,” Engie says when the two of them head out to the garage. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes, we are going on a date,” Spy says, as if daring Engie to say something.

“Have fun. Remember to call if you get arrested, there's bail money on top of the fridge.” There is, in fact, a large jar on top of the refrigerator simply labelled “BAIL”. It contains fifty thousand dollars.

“Yes, mother,” Spy says, pulling Sniper outside.

“Where are you going?” Sniper asks him as he walks towards the van.

“We are not taking that,” he says. When Sniper tries to protest, he pulls the cover off a shiny red sports car. “We are taking _my_ car.”

“Since when have you had a car?”

“I've always had this. I just don't have the excuse to drive it very much, but tonight being a special occasion it seemed appropriate.”

“It's nice, or at least I think it is,” Sniper says, studying it through squinted eyes. “Are you sure you want to let me sit in it?”

“ _Tais-toi_ and get in,” he tells him, opening the passenger door.

“You know I don't know what you're saying when you go French on me, right?”

“ _Oui_.” He starts the engine and pulls out of the garage.

“That one I got.”

* * *

They have to leave hours early for their reservation, since they made it in Albuquerque rather than somewhere closer to the base. Teufort doesn't look too kindly on the teams in general, and both Spy and Sniper figured that going to dinner would incite a riot, and the larger city offers anonymity and the possibility of the more cosmopolitan inhabitants overlooking the sight of two men on a date.

“Well, they'll be more likely to overlook it if you take that bloody mask off,” Sniper says. “Nobody in the city is gonna know what we do. You're just going to be some bloke with weird tan lines.”

“Yes, and how are we going to explain that?”

“No one's going to ask about that; it would be rude.”

“You mention them every time I take it off.”

“Yeah, but I'm your boyfriend. I'm allowed.”

“You are not my _boyfriend_. I am not a sixteen-year-old girl. You are my partner.”

“That makes it sound like we work at the bank together.”

“Lover?”

“God, no.”

“Paramour?”

“I don't know what that means, but it sounds nice.”

“What if I told you it means 'rotten bastard'?”

“It doesn't.”

“How do you know? You told me an hour ago you don't know what I'm saying when I 'go French'.”

“Because I know you, and as much as you like to fuck me around I know all your suggestions for something important are going to be serious.”

“Hmph. Next time I really am going to suggest 'rotten bastard' and then where will you be?”

“I'm all right with it if you are. Now take the mask off.”

* * *

“Is this the right place?” Spy asks as they pull up in front of a building.

Sniper squints at the sign. “I don't know.”

“Well, let us get out and check,” he says.

“I think this is it, yeah,” Sniper says, now that he's closer to the sign. Spy takes his arm to lead him to the door – the path leading to it is cobbled, and without his glasses Sniper is liable to trip over a stone. “Thanks, mate.”

“You are welcome, _buddy_ ,” Spy says, doing his best American accent on the last word.

“Do you have a reservation?” asks the host, taking in the sight of a skinny Frenchman in an immaculate tuxedo clinging to the arm of an even taller man who's trying his best not to howl with laughter in the middle of a nice restaurant. He is not particularly polite.

“Yeah, sorry, mate,” Sniper says, still repressing laughter. “Should be under 'Mundy'.”

They can see the moment the host reads “for two” and understands what, exactly, is happening in this establishment tonight, because his eyebrows shoot up and eyes pop. When he looks up again, Spy gives him a wink and a wave, still holding Sniper's arm with his other hand.

“Right this way...gentlemen,” he says, trying not to look at Spy too much. He takes them to a table in a dark corner, probably the kind most people would complain about, but Sniper considers it a bit of a kindness – this way they'll be harder to stare at, and they can talk, just the two of them. Spy slides a tip into the host's pocket with another wink.

“ _Au revoir,_ ” he says as the host practically runs in the other direction, then shakes his head. “Straight people.”

“I'll drink to that,” Sniper says, unfolding his napkin.

“Still think going on a date was a good idea?”

“Hey, if all we get is a bit of lip from the staff I'd consider us lucky.”

“Hm, I suppose.” He takes the menu off the table and begins to look through it. “What do you think you will order?”

Sniper has his menu as close to his face as humanly possible. “Give me a chance to look through it, you bogan.”

Spy sighs. “Do you honestly have to hold it like that?”

“Unless you want to read it to me, yes.”

Spy slides the menu from Sniper's hands. “Then I will. I promised to be your eyes tonight, did I not?”

“Yeah, but if you do that it's going to take bloody forever.”

“It's fine, I can leave out any dishes I know you won't eat.” He scans the menu again. “Which, admittedly, is most of them. Why did you pick this restaurant, anyway?”

“Phone book said it was a French restaurant,” Sniper says, shrugging.

“You insufferable _connard_! Picking this out for me and not even considering that I would have to sit here looking at your long, miserable face for three hours!”

“...Did you just call me a duck?”

“That's _canard_. But you're learning.”

“Get back to reading the menu, I don't want to have to deal with people more than I have to and I think the waiter's coming.”

The waiter does indeed come by their table shortly thereafter. It turns out he, too, is French, and so he and Spy jump into a fast-paced conversation in their native language. Sniper can tell from the quick looks in his direction and the laughter that a lot of it is jokes at his expense. 

“Did you actually order anything, or were you just having a chat with your new mate?”

“No need to be jealous, _mon amour_ , though it is a good look on you. I did place orders. You're having a beef dish, you'll like it.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

Spy pats his hand where it lays on the table, drawing a few looks from nearby tables. “Don't worry. There's a taco truck three blocks away if you don't.”

“I can't tell if you're being nice or a condescending arse right now.”

Spy shrugs, which Sniper has learned means “I don't know either” in situations like this.

The beef turns out to be delicious.

“Oi, Spy,” Sniper says as dinner draws to a close, “who pays for a date when you're both blokes?”

“Sometimes I forget you have literally never dated another human being,” Spy says. “I believe the etiquette is 'whoever asks, pays', which would place the onus on you. Of course, the etiquette is also 'do not talk about paying for the date _on_ the date'...”

“Shut up, I'm still figuring things out. But yeah, I'll pay.” He reaches into his pocket. “Or you will, because I left my wallet at home.”

Spy heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine, I will...not pay, because my wallet is in my uniform.”

“I can't believe our first date is coming to this,” Sniper groans, burying his face in his hands.

“I can't believe we expected anything else to happen.” He looks around the restaurant. “I am leaving first, since technically you were supposed to pay.”

“Fine. See you in a few, spook.” Spy gives him a quick kiss on the forehead as he passes by. The other diners start to murmur. Sniper silences them with his best glare (though he feels the effect is probably ruined by the fact that he can't actually see any of them clearly).

A few minutes after Spy's departure, Sniper gets up and quietly walks out. He thinks they've made it, as he picks his way over the stony path to the car, until --

“Hey, those queers didn't pay!”

“Ah, piss,” Sniper says, attempting to move faster over the uneven ground.

“Go a little faster, _pour l'amour de dieu_ ,” Spy calls from the convertible.

“I'm trying, mate, but I can't see a bloody thing!”

The host, who called out in the first place, is catching up to Sniper. He decides to leg it for the car, and throws himself bodily into it through the open roof rather than bothering with the door.

“Go, go, go!” he tells Spy from his position near the floor. Spy doesn't need to be told again and tears away from the curb as fast as he can go.

Sniper rights himself in the seat as they search for an on-ramp. 

“Can I have my glasses back now?”

* * *

“So, boys, how was your big date last night?” Engie asks in the morning. “I see you didn't need me to come down with the bail jar.”

“No, but it was a close thing,” Sniper says, still in his dress shirt and tie, the two of them not having bothered to get undressed after the long ride home. “We had to dine-and-dash.”

“Yes, it was truly a shining example for the community,” Spy says. “I don't imagine we'll be invited to any of those pride parades any time soon.”

“Thank god,” says Sniper. “Too much dancing for me.”

“What happened then?”

“I jumped in the car – literally – and we drove all the way home at seventy-five because even though he likes to play at being smooth Spy is a jumpy bastard.”

“You can never be too careful!”

“It was more likely that they'd pull us over for speeding! What do you think the cops were telling each other? 'Be on the lookout for two poncy-looking queers'?” He rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “Besides, your car has a cloak on it!”

“Which was inactive.”

“Only because you were too busy screaming to activate it.”

“I did not scream.”

“You did a little.”

“So, good night, then?” Engie breaks in.

“Yes,” they say, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is dedicated to voxmyriad, my number one fan/cheerleader/beta and the reason I ship this in the first place.
> 
> Title borrowed from the Spock's Beard song of the same name.


End file.
